Mr and Mrs Hart
by Short-Circuited
Summary: He is a gentleman spy of the Kingsman Secret Service. She is a mercenary for hire. When these two get together things tend to get explosive. As they say, "All's fair in love and war. GalahadXOC; possible LancelotXOC WARNINGS: OC's, mature scenes, language, violence, and possible OOCness.
1. The Russian Job

**A/N:**** I'm hoping to cash in on the Kingsman craze right now, that and Colin Firth as Galahad is absolutely scrumptious. I cannot promise to update all the time because I am in nursing school currently, but I do promise to update. Also, since they did not expand on Lancelot's character enough I shall interpret him the way I believe he would act. I feel like he and Galahad balance each other out, so he will be charming like Galahad, but more casual and playful. Every team needs that one sarcasticly, charming fellow. And, yes, I did get this idea from watching _Mr. and Mrs. Smith_, but I am not going to copy it. I'm not even sure they will even get married. Anywho - I hope you enjoy!**** Ha! I know I will.**

**Love,**

**S.C**

**I, Shorty C., do not own _Kingsman: The Secret Service_ in any way, shape, or fashion. It belongs to the minds of Mark Millar and Matthew Vaughn.**

* * *

_Kingsman Meeting Room; 2001_

"Glasses on, Gentlemen."

Following the command, of their resident technical officer, Merlin, the rest of the men within the room picked up their glasses and slid them on. The glasses, once on, gave way to a new sight; a new way of seeing in a new age. Created only a year ago, the virtual reality and interface glasses allow the Kingsman to do many a things that heighten their performance. Their use now is to sync up with Merlin's laptop that he had laid out upon the table.

Lancelot blinked a bit as data flash before his eyes, taking up a good portion of his sight. His nose crinkled up a tad in distaste.

"I'll never get use to this."

Merlin smiled over to his colleague, "A new age is dawning in the technological world, Lancelot. I intend to allow new discoveries to launch us into the future. I have a number of other projects I am working on currently."

"I'd rather just keep my gun, thank you."

Arthur glanced at Lancelot with a disapproving look, "Gentlemen, can we please get on with it? Precious time is being floundered by your squabbling. Merlin, continue.

"Right, Sir", Merlin coughed and adjusted his glasses. He then moved his mouse to bring up an ID picture of a man of his mid to late thirties with a mop of brown hair. Bright blues eyes were marred by a pair of thick glasses that were perched upon the bridge of his nose.

"Jerome Moran, age 38, a physicist from American, he was most notably known for his assistance in enhancing the efficiency of the particle accelerator. He was nabbed a day ago in Moscow as he was on his way to a lecture on the Quantum Theory at the Moscow State University."

Galahad took a good long look at the man in the picture. Moran was only four years older than himself. He soon spoke up, "Does he have any enemies?"

Merlin scrolled though the file, "No enemies per se."

Lancelot grinned and also added his two pennies worth, "What about a dodgy bint out for his head?"

The resident tech looked over his glasses at the man whom had tucked his hands behind his head in a passive way. The two were just hell bent on getting on each other's nerves today. Merlin ground his teeth silently and then reset his jaw. He just needed to keep his comments to himself. That's what a gentleman would do.

"Not likely, Lancelot. No sign or record of an ex, a mistress, or spouse. But there is something that could have lead to his kidnapping."

He brought up a partial picture of a blueprint, "This is a partial schematic to his rumored new invention, the Hydrogen Accelerator. We've been hearing about his plans for the past three years now. No one but Jerome knows the full plans. By hearsay he has not even let his team know every bit."

"Why not? Wouldn't a team of scientists and researchers need to know what exactly they are working on?"

"You would think, Galahad", Merlin held up a single finger, "but he was smart about it. He spliced up the plans and assigned a single piece to each person of his team. The only reason I have this picture is because one of the interns leaked it to the _Popular Science_ magazine."

Lancelot, finally, a little interested leaned forward, "So, what does this accelerator do exactly?

"Good question, and my answer also leads up to a possible reason as to why our man was napped. Again, just by hearsay, the Hydrogen Accelerator is purposed to be more efficient in testing my delicate processes. According to the leaked resources, this accelerator is meant to be geared towards the medical field. More specifically x-ray beams. My assumption is that this machine can be used to produce more radiation free equipment."

Merlin took a moment to type a few phrases into his computer. He sifted through the files he'd acquired from his sources. His eyes widened a bit before he adjusted his glasses. "Never mind, his intentions are the exact opposite."

Soon, Merlin brought up a more recent article; recent being this week. The title reading large across the, "ANTIMATTER BOMB COMES WITH PRODUCTION OF HYDROGEN ACCELERATOR".

Lancelot sighed heavily, "Bombs. It is always bombs. Can a scientist ever produce something actually helpful? Like cancer. Whatever happened to trying to discover a cure for cancer?"

"Enough, Lancelot", Arthur cut off his agent's rant with a gesture of his hand before turning his attention to Merlin. "What does this mean for Dr. Moran?"

"It means that we have a motive for kidnapping. For years the military has been trying to find a means for the seemingly fictitious antimatter bomb, but it always proves to be inaccessible. Particle accelerators are expensive and inefficient, but very useful. With the production of this new accelerator as a more efficient energy source comes more discoveries."

"Meaning more efficient weaponry", Galahad added. "What's next? Do we have a lead on his whereabouts?"

"Actually, that is the best part. His captors are not exactly discreet."

Merlin pulled up another picture, "This was taken from a traffic camera just outside the city of Moscow."

It showed a nondescript black vehicle speeding its way out of the city with no license plate and widows tinted so black it's a wonder they could even see. Next, Merlin gave another picture of the same vehicle with a different time stamp and obviously in a different place.

"This picture was taken in a city one hundred and one miles away from Moscow called Vladimir heading towards an even smaller town of Muromtzevo. Resources say they saw the same black car within the area. A lead even stated the driver asked where the Murmtzevo Castle was located."

Another picture popped up in their vision, one of an abandoned, collapsing castle-like mansion. It was not very large, three maybe four stories tall, but just big enough to hide a man and keep him hidden.

"Satellites have captured images in the past four hours of bodies on the grounds of the castle, while it is normally unoccupied. That is where our man is being kept."

"Why exactly do we want this man alive, exactly? If all he is doing is building another way of allowing us to kill ourselves then by all means, I say let him rot", Lancelot, much to nearly everyone's chagrin, opened his mouth once more.

Galahad broke the tension, "Because, Lancelot, if Moran dies, there is a chance that beforehand his captors would acquire the information they're after. Meaning-"

"Meaning, they could sell the schematics to anyone willing to pay a barmy amount of money", Lancelot finished, finally getting the gist.

"Precisely", Galahad merely nodded at the sudden epiphany of his friend. "What do we have to do?"

"Galahad, your job is to get Jerome Moran out alive. The schematics for his newest hydrogen accelerator cannot make it to the black market. Lancelot, you will merely accompany as support this time. You will be communicating with Galahad and the pilots of the K-Jet and the heli. But that will be explained more later."

Lancelot adjusted his jacket and finally took off the (distracting) glasses and put them in his pocket, "Ace. So when do we start?"

* * *

A light bulb swung lonely back and forth, back and forth in the damp cell; the light it threw gleaming on the wet, moss-covered walls. The light itself did not actually belong there. It was thrown over a hook attached to the low set ceiling, casting a dim yellow glow about the place. The room was built up by large, rectangular shaped blocks made of stone that did not fit together quite properly. Between the cracks anything could come through. Water, drafts, vines, bugs, _snakes._ Though the wildlife was not an issue at this point. It was the cool wind that proved to be the worst part. There appeared to be holes everywhere, which created, what seemed to be a constant wind within the room. It looked as if the place was falling apart. Stones crumbling, rafters falling, and piles of rubble laid about. The lone occupant could care less though; he couldn't see a thing.

Jerome Moran tried to not freak out. He was smart enough to not hyperventilate or jerk around too much. Whatever he did would prove to make matters worse; so, he just resorted to glancing around, trying to see past the loosely woven threads of the sack tied to his head. All that could be seen was the yellowish light that reflected back to him off the walls. It was very disconcerting. Truth be told, Jerome felt as if he would wet himself.

He had not known where he was at or how long it has been. But not long ago was he walking down the colorful streets of Moscow on his way to Moscow State University, and now he was tied (_very_ tightly) to a chair, with a bag over his head and the edges taped to his shirt and neck. Not only could he feel the circulation in his hand and feet slowing but he could also feel a large bump on the back of his head where his captor(s) rendered him unconscious. Jerome was just all around uncomfortable. He had no intentions of coming to Russia and getting captured. Then again no one plans to be kidnapped.

A door slammed open only a ways behind him. The sound of wood colliding with stone made him jump, well, as much as he could with being tethered to a chair. He did not like the feeling of having someone behind him. He liked having everyone in front of him so he could see what they were doing. Too many times had people spoke about him behind his back. If they were going to say something, they needed to say it too his face. All he heard were footsteps, heavy ones, clunking and clacking against the floor. After a moment, everything went quiet. That's when he really began to get nervous.

* * *

"Forty klicks out, Sir. ETA: twenty minutes." The pilot called back over the headset.

"Right." Galahad spoke to the pilot as he prepared himself. Pulling on a parachute pack and tightening down the straps. He slipped his agency issued glasses into one of the many pockets of his stealth garb, and then he placed a pair of night vision goggles over his brown eyes before pulling the rest of the mask over his face.

"I will jump one klick from targeted position. No need in giving away our arrival", Galahad spoke to his pilot as he prepared himself to execute his upcoming mission.

"Are you quite sure you do not need my help?"

Galahad glanced up from his belt that he snapped closed to look at his partner and close friend, Lancelot. The man, as all Kingsman, was dressed smartly like always. Two button suit jacket of a Harris Tweed with a more casual look to his person with his hands in the pockets of his pants. He more often than not blurred the lines between the American and British styled suits, while Galahad stuck with his sharper British cut. They contrasted by means of not only style and aura but color too; while Lancelot preferred more earthy tones, Galahad kept his wardrobe to mostly clean grays and charcoals. However they both seemed to live by the three piece.

"When have I never needed your help?"

Lancelot cocked a cheeky eyebrow, "There was that one time Vienna with Baron Verchow's _lovely_ Baroness. . . Remember the hot tub?"

Galahad cut his eyes to his friend as he loaded his gun with a click, not very amused by his joshing.

Lancelot continued, "And, what about when you were captured, starkers, and strung up in Bolivia." He leaned against the wall of the plane as Galahad continued to try to ignore him. "Had you strung up for the slaughter, and who came to your rescue?"

His partner merely added a few extra clips to his pockets, as he felt this would get messy very quickly.

"_And_, what about the time in Chile?"

Galahad's head snapped up to stare down his friend. "You promised we would never speak of that."

Loving that he struck a chord within the normally, level headed man, Lancelot grinned and continued on. "Remember the lovely _Señorita_ at the bar that invited you back to her room for the night. The one with the nice legs and arse, but unusually flat baps?"

"Please, don't continue, and as I remember you not help one bit you barmy, Bastard. You laughed your arse off as I was accosted by a bloke in a blouse. You knew the whole time."

"Of course I did! It makes for a wonderful story to tell at Christmas."

Galahad stared at him blankly for a moment, "Don't make me shoot you."

Lancelot continued to smile and he raised his hands up in an, 'I surrender' position. "Sorry if I am a bit cheeky."

"A bit?"

"Galahad, Sir, five klicks from the revised position. Get ready to drop", the pilot called back to the duo.

"Heard", he confirmed over his small headset that was mounted onto his ear. "Lancelot, if you will, drop the door."

Galahad adjusted his parachute one more time, checking the straps and belts before approaching the opening drop door at the back of the plane. He pressed a button on the side of his goggles; the interface soon popped up revealing data of the environment in from of him and the time.

From behind his friend approached him and clasped a hand on his black clad shoulder. He had speak loudly over the sound of the roaring wind, "Galahad, we'll be patrolling the air space two klicks out from your position. Muromtzevo Castle is one klick due southeast from your estimated landing position. Merlin believes the target is being held in one of the old downstairs storage rooms."

"Do we know how many bodies are there?"

Lancelot shook his head, "We have no idea. Maybe three, maybe thirteen. As a rule of thumb I'd say the latter, always better to expect more. Now, once you have acquired the target a heli will pick you up right outside the castle. It is coming out of Moscow right now. It should be here by the time you finish. If you finish, which you should, before the heli arrives start walking northwest and it'll meet you. Understood?"

"Yes. Anything else?"

Lancelot smiled and patted him on the shoulder, "Yes, don't get shot. Now, jump!"

* * *

Still, no one had spoken. The silence, he knew, was another added scare tactic, but he could not help but fall for it. Against his better judgment Jerome opened his mouth to speak.

"What do you wan-"

_ Crack!_

A heavy, blunt object connected with his jaw, knocking an incisor loose and successfully bloodying his mouth and the inside of his sack. Jerome grunted and groaned. He was never exposed to such violence before and never truly had a fight. He busted his lip and skinned his knees as a child, but that was it. This was a whole new breed of cat for him, and he didn't like it.

"You no ask questions. I ask questions." The man did not yell, he did not raise his voice; rather, he stayed calm and quiet in his choppy English. This was more discomforting than anything.

"P-please, j-just tell me-"

_ Crack!_

"No speaking. I tell you when to speak."

This time he heard his glasses crack. Jerome opened his mouth again, but the taste of blood on his tongue told him better. He let his head fall forward, a sign of submission. It would be better to give them whatever they wanted.

"Now. Where is plans for the hydrogen accelerator?"

Except for that.

"N-no. I can't give you those."

The man grunted and leaned forward. A second later the tape holding the sack to his neck was ripped off, then came the bag. Jerome shook his head and squinted into the dim light which looked as bright as fluorescence at the moment. The man grabbed his chin and jerked upward, not caring if Jerome's blood dirtied his hands.

Finally, Jerome got a look at the man, albeit through cracked lenses. He suddenly wanted the sack back. . . The tall man looked as if his face took a few whack from an ugly stick. Everything about him was large. His nose, square jaw, and big, wide forehead. On top of that, various scars which looked to be burn marred his left eye and cheek, creating a pink-peach color of mottled flesh. The bag looked much better in his opinion.

"Tell me."

"I destroyed them", he lied.

The man dug his sausage finger deeply into Jerome's jaw, squeezing with a pressure that he did not know a man could possess. A groan left the smaller man's throat as he felt something crack.

"I will not ask again, Moran. Where is schematics for accelerator?" Another sickening crack resonated within the dimly lit area. Jerome felt his torturer close in around his face, creating an uncomfortable aura about them both.

"I would break if I were you, Moran. What I have planned next is not nice."

With that, the man took hold of something in his pocket. Immediately, Jerome thought the man was going to pull out a gun. Oh, if only he were so lucky. He soon wished it were a gun once his eyes took sight of a large pair of pliers. Jerome's eyes widened and he began to shake and pull at his chair. The wooden legs lifted from the ground as he tried to move away, but the man merely smiled and took hold of the back of the chair. After steadying the semi-flailing man he brought his other hand up to hook the pliers over Jerome's middle finger. It took less than a second for Jerome to scream as the tool squished tightly around his smaller appendage. Over the sound of his own screams he could barely make out a voice saying, "Now, imagine this around balls."

He squeezed tighter and tighter and _tighter, _and then yanked up.

"Aghg! Nghh. Fuck! You crazy, Bastard! You broke my finger! Ah, fuck!"

Quicker than the last, his torturer took hold of another appendage and twisted harshly, almost taking the whole finger with him.

A scream tore from Jerome's throat as his own blood poured from the deep tears on his broken fingers.

"I can't give you the plans! I should have never created the blasted thing!"

The man frowned deeper, if that was even possible.

"Принесите дрель."

"What?" Jerome did not understand what he said, but whatever his last word was it sounded like "drill".

"Drill? What drill? Why do you need a drill?"

Another man, shorter than his torturer walked in and pass Jerome. The newcomer tossed him a dirty, yellowing smirk as he handed a rather large, cordless drill to the other.

His torturer revved up the power tool, watching as the sharp, long drill bit spun ferociously. Jerome couldn't speak. Instead, he was hypnotized by the metallic spear, that he was sure would soon be somewhere within him. What could he do but prepare to scream?

* * *

"Принесите дрель." - Bring the drill.


	2. The Ghost Hunter

Galahad landed precisely on the designated drop point, successfully avoiding getting caught in the many trees that surround the area. As soon as he landed and had the parachute pack off his person, he was off, going at a steady jog towards his destination. He had five minutes to get to Muromtzevo Castle, walking was not permissible at the moment, and running would be a waste of energy. Jogging it was. In mid stride he reached up and adjusted the frequency of his ear piece.

"Come in, Lancelot."

There was static and then a, "Yes, Dear?"

He forced himself to not roll his eyes. "You'd think you would take this seriously now that I am actually in the field."

"Harry, when have you ever known me to take anything seriously", he chided playfully.

"Never", Galahad stated with a small smile only he knew about. "Am I headed in the right direction? I do not see any lights ahead."

The speaker was silent for just a moment, as his partner figured out his position. A few seconds later, "Looks like you're headed in the right direction. Keep going straight. You'll soon hit a clearing and a long driveway. There is not any electrical power at the castle. I assume they are using generators to light the building. Keeps your goggles on and be on the lookout for any movement, though it does not look as if they have any patrols. Two bodies outside the front door."

"Alright. Galahad, out."

He kept trudging his way through fallen leaves and broken twigs. Thank goodness he did not wear his good shoes this time. Last time he went out like this it took him weeks to get the caked red dirt off of the bottom of his feet. Galahad slowed his breathing, trying to conserve as much energy as he could because it could not be much longer now until he reached his destination. He checked the HUD on his goggles, seeing that he'd made almost eight hundred meters since his landing. Only two hundred to go. He pushed on.

Then he stopped, suddenly. No warning, nothing. Galahad stood stock still staring at the area in front of him. Then a sound of crunching leaves came to his left. With a quick, quiet movement, he lunged towards a tree and spun around the trunk, pinned whoever was there with an arm to their neck and had them at gun point. A sudden, short scream crept its way out of the person's throat before he jammed his forearm deeper into their trachea. Once Galahad had them pinned down enough he finally asked questions and took a good look.

"Who are you? What are you doing out here?"

It was a girl. A girl that looked almost fifteen, maybe seventeen. Through his night vision goggles everything was green but he could tell that her hair was dark in color, done up in high, childish pigtails. She had thick rimmed glasses on her face and he could not tell what color he eyes were, but she was white. A very milky pale color. He took every bit of information about her in through his eyes. She was dressed in just a normal pair of jeans, sneakers, and a large baggy sweatshirt that swallowed her whole. She had a backpack strapped across her shoulders.

Galahad, after allowing all this information sink in, dug the gun into her forehead and asked one more time, "Who are you?"

"Я русский! Я русский!"

Galahad sighed and question the girl in her own native tongue. He found out (through bouts of her stuttering and crying) that her name was Karina and she was, indeed, sixteen. When he asked her what was in the bag she told him it was her camera and some recording devices.

According to her, Muromtzevo Castle was a local hotspot for spirit sightings and ghost hunting. Her friends were meeting her there in an hour to do just that, hunt for ghosts. The young girl was shaking and crying on the spot. Tears welled up on her glasses, smudging them and then rolling down her cheeks. Her heart shaped face was contorted into fear for her life as she stared down the barrel of a gun.

"Пожалуйста , не делайте мне больно, сэр", she blubbered out.

With a groan, he lowered his arm from her neck and put his gun away, against his better judgment. He told her to go home, call her friends and tell them not to come. Luckily, she never saw his face due to his mask, so at least she would not be able to describe him. She picked up her dropped cellphone from the ground.

"Благодарю вас, сэр ! Спасибо!"

He watched as the girl took off in the opposite direction of the castle. Galahad kept his stance until he was sure that he could no longer hear any footsteps. With a shake of his head, he kept walking towards the castle. On the way he radioed Lancelot.

"I'm here", came his friend's voice.

"Lancelot, can you quickly tell me if our castle is prone to being visited by ghost hunters? Maybe a creepy hangout for children?"

The man on the other end laughed a bit, "Why? Scared of a few ghosts, are we?"

"Not bloody likely. Just tell me."

"Alright, don't get your knickers in a twist."

Soon Lancelot answered him, "Looks like the mansion is used for certain activities that you suggested."

"Thanks. I'm about nine hundred meters out. I should reach my destination in five minutes. Galahad, out."

It seemed as if her story checked out, but he couldn't help but ask himself why her "friends" were meeting her and not walking with her instead.

* * *

"This is last chance, Doctor", the burly, Russian man revved up the drill in his hand right in front of Jerome Moran's face. His intimidation tactic proved to be working, as the captive man began crying a few seconds earlier. "Tell me plans and I won't hurt you."

The doctor shook his head vigorously, before looking up to the Russian. Blood poured from a freshly broken nose and a busted lip. The man looked purely pitiful. One would think that he would have broken by now, but the lanky bastard held up. But, doesn't mean it did not hurt like a mother. He knew he could not give the information to this man. Jerome worked too hard to keep his work under lock and key. Even went as far as to keep the whole plan from his investors. He gave them what they wanted to hear. Progression of an antimatter bomb. In all truth he did not want to use his creation for such monstrosities. Instead, he'd hoped to use it to spring the human race into the future in medicine and security. Not _weapons_.

The Russian man gave a disappointed sigh. He once again gripped Jerome's chin, "I gave you many chance."

He brought his face close to Jerome's, and he could smell the halitosis from the man's mouth. "I was nice."

The Russian looked back to his partner who still stood in the room, "Was I nice?"

The other smiled and nodded his head, "Да."

"See", he shifted Jerome's vision to the other man, "he say I was nice. But, you refuse my offers. That hurts my feelings."

Trying to stay strong and trying to act as if he was not even phased by the man's intimidation tactics, he looked up with narrowed eyes through busted glasses. Then he spat a glob of bloody spittle right in the man's eye.

"Screw. You."

"Bad word choice."

If he was angry he did not show it. Instead, the Russian blandly wiped the fluid from his face. He looked at it then wiped it on his dirty trousers. Then with a growl and no warning he turned the drill on and Moran's brave façade dropped instantly. The man saw this and for the first time he grinned. It was yellow, just like his partner's, and maybe even more, and it was quite unsettling.

Jerome Moran could not help it as his eyes stared at the sharp, spinning, spear on the end of the drill. Even has it neared his left side he was frozen solid. The man was going intentionally slow. Then just as the bit began to bite at his jacket at his shoulder he thrashed in wild abandon. He grunted and yelled.

"No. Nonono. Please don't. PleaAAhggh!"

Jerome's head flung itself backwards against the spine of the chair as the sharp point buried itself agonizingly slow into the side of his deltoid. The bit spun quickly, slinging flesh and bodily fluids against anyone who was near. Moran watched in horror as his shoulder was mutilated by a fast spinning drill. To make matters even worse, his torturer began twisting and thrusting the drill in any direction just to make the action even more excruciating.

Then he hit bone and Moran was sure he was about to pass out. Red hot pain filled his vision. No, that was just his blood splashing onto the lens of his glasses. The smell of his own bone and the hot friction it had from the drill bit was nauseating and he felt as if he would vomit. He had stopped thrashing and jumping around at this point because it only made the situation even worse. Once he was sure he felt the drill bit connect with the back of the chair and bury itself in, he took a deep breath. But, his reprieve was short lived as the Russian flicked a button and soon the drill was going in reverse. Jerome felt every single rotation the bit made as it was pulled from his shoulder gradually. When it finally exited his body he was sure it took bits of his flesh with it.

Once out, Jerome's head fell forward in a daze. There was a ringing in his ears and tunnel vision crept at the edge of his eyes. He did not even want to look at his mutilated flesh. Suddenly, upper torso thrust itself forward and the taste of vile acid filled his mouth. Without the capability to bend over further the vomitus from his stomach spilled into his own lap, drenching his pants in a revolting smelling liquid. His head continued to hang from that position as he started to feel heavy and tired. There was a tingling in his hands and feet, and a blackness creeping into his vision.

Just as he felt the urge to pass out a hand collided with his jaw.

"No sleeping."

* * *

Outside the crumbling building, just at the edge of the clearing behind a bush, Kingsman Galahad assessed the situation before him. As far as he could see three men stood guard outside the castle. Well, one stood guard, walking around the premises a short distance, while the other two sat on the steps near the front doors playing cards. Idiots. Galahad adjusted his goggles to infra-red, allowing him to see pass the building's infrastructure. Inside there were three bodies, one in a chair; they were in the far east wing. This was a doddle for him. He would be in and out in four minutes flat.

Galahad checked his HUD for the time: 22:35.

Without wasting any more time, the secret agent snuck to an edge of the clearing that was to the farthest side of the three men. He wanted to be almost coming behind them from the back. He waited a few seconds as the patrolling one finished walking towards his hiding place. A few more steps and he would be right on top of Galahad. He bided his time, holding his breath for just a moment and steadied his crouch. Just as the man began to spin on his heel to head the other direction, Galahad leapt up from the shrubbery with a silence that took years to master.

His arms and hands sealed around the guard's mouth, locking his jaw in place, while another arm snaked around his arms and torso to keep him from floundering. Galahad twisted a leg between his, preventing his body from moving. Then with a swift thrust of his hips into the guard's and sharp pull back on his neck a resounding, soft pop came and Galahad lunged himself and the body back into the bushes. No attention had been gained.

Galahad waited a single second to see if the others had heard anything, but soon crept from his spot. He needed to act fast because the two would notice. Once he crossed the short distance from the forest edge to the castle he suctioned himself to the brick side, and slinked his way towards the men at an almost adjacent angle. No footsteps were heard.

Soon his body was merely feet from the oblivious Russians on the steps. He dug his pistol out of his pocket and screwed the silencer on. This would be easy from here. Galahad stepped from his position and slightly into their line of sight. Still no notice. He gave a cough.

"Excuse me, Gentlemen."

The men's heads whipped up with a fierceness. Their eyes were wide, much like a deer and from a moment they were stilled. Galahad allowed a small smile behind his mask.

"Mind if I join in?"

The two sprung up, but were immediately shoved back down to the ground by two bullets to the head. They did not even have a chance to arm themselves. The spy continued on his way, stepping over the meat sacks, carefully avoiding the rapidly pooling blood, all the while whistling a soft little tune.

The next part would be trying to make it to the other men in the castle without making a single noise. Rubble covered the floors, and it looked as if every room would prove to be the same. Heading to the east wing, Galahad began his climb over various rafters, trying to avoiding crunching anything beneath his feet.

Luckily, there was enough screaming coming from his destination to mask his approach.

* * *

Back outside the small castle, a pair of gray eyes starred at the scene through binoculars. A single gloved finger twisted the dial near the side of the lenses to zoom in on the two dropped bodies on the ground. The internal infra-red scanner showed the rapidly declining temperature of the two as the blood poured from the backs of their heads.

Not a single sound had been heard from the scene that had unfolded, except for the attacker's cheeky comment and the soft _petew!_ _petew! _of the silencer. A half smirk cocked itself on the face of the gray eyed observer.

"Not bad, Secret Agent Man. Not bad at all."

* * *

In a back room on the far side of the castle, Jerome Moran struggled to hold on for life. He was sure to die from shock at this point, as the pain was unbearable, and he could not stand it anymore. He wanted to go home. He wanted to go home and lock himself in his lab where no one would ever find him again. He wanted to never ever travel outside of the United States and he _never __**ever**_ wanted to build another blasted invention again. Maybe getting involved in medicine would be a nice change. Biomedical physicist does have a nice ring to it.

Another scream tore itself from his aching throat and echoed around the walls and even made its way outside the building. Jerome cut narrowed his eyes in pain at the sight of a drill bit boring its way through the front side of his elbow. His whole left arm had been rendered useless now. Two fingers broken, a large, gaping hole at his shoulder and, in a moment, the crease of his arm. The superficial flesh was more tender there, and when the bit hit the beginning of the joint capsule white hot agony zapped through his nerves, sending warning signals to his brain. Again, the drill bit through the bones there with an ease that should not even be possible.

Once the Russian man before him thought that Jerome had had enough for that moment he removed the drill and allowed him to catch his breath. The man pulled a scrap of a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away blood from his own face that had slung itself up from Moran's wounds. He then shoved the dirty piece back in his coat pocket and stared at the quivering Moran from narrowed eyes.

"Last chance, Moran."

He brought a heavy, booted foot up to the height of Jerome's tied down arm (which was easy due to his own stature) a pressed it into the left hand; his fingers, to be precise. A grunt left Jerome. At least this was better than the drill.

"All I want is plans. Give them and I stop."

At this point, the idea of cracking really, _really_, crossed his mind. By just telling him where the plans were being hidden would make all the pain go away. He could go home to his dog, Taffy, and read a nice book. Or, he could attend the latest play on Broadway, he always liked going to those. He just wanted to go home.

A little nudge in the back of his skull told him that no matter what he did he would lose. If he gave them the plans there was no guarantee that he would not just finish the job, and his greatest invention would fall prey to any man or woman who had the biggest guns and the largest amount of money. But, if he didn't spill, he would be done for undoubtedly.

Time to bite the bullet.

"No." Jerome gritted his teeth and spat out whatever venom he had. "I will never allow my prized possession to fall into your grimy hands. You'll just have to shoot me and then go look for them yourself. But, you will be disappointed, as you would be searching for them for a long time. I am the only one who knows the plans completely and I'll be damned if you will ever crack me."

Towards the end of his rant, Jerome began to get a little hysterical, probably from the loss of blood, but he felt great! The pain was almost nonexistent and his senses were heightened to a point that surprised him. He felt as if he could run a marathon and then attend a triathlon. However, his captor just looked on in a blasé fashion.

"Done now? Got out of system, did you?"

Jerome gulped.

"Listen here, Little Shit", the man pressed his boot down, fully stepping on Moran's hand. "At count of five, I take this drill and borrow into balls. Got it?"

Jerome sucked in a large breath as tears pricked in his eyes a bit. No one was coming to rescue him.

"один."

He would die here.

"Два."

He had not even had a chance to marry.

"три."

Who would care for Taffeta?

"четыре."

God, save him.

"пять. Time up."

Two things happened at once. Just as the drill revved up to approach his jewels, the door behind right behind Jerome busted wide open, hanging off a single hinge. All he could see was the Russian man's head whip up to stare pass him and the other man's movement towards his gun. Suddenly, a knife whirled by Jerome's ear and buried itself deeply into his torturer's shoulder with a force that knocked him back, causing a slight stumble.

Jerome pissed himself (just a little) as a third man catapulted himself over his chair to heave both his feet flatly into the Russian man's chest, sending him fully to the ground. He heard the air force its way out of his chest. The new comer simply stepped over the Russian man towards his accomplice and quickly disarmed him. The idiot held his gun outstretched from his body, allowing the new comer to retrieve it. Amateur.

Seemingly unfazed by the hit to the chest, Jerome's torturer vaulted from the floor and spun on his heel to face the third man. He reached up and unsheathed the bowie knife from his shoulder and flung it at the attacker. To which the other dodged it rapidly, causing the weapon to imbed itself with a soft stone. With a movement, Jerome almost did not see, the new attacker pulled another knife from his side and tossed it towards the Russian man's chest. But, unbeknownst to the torturer, it was merely a distraction. Just as he went to dodge the knife, the other man quickly brandished his pistol and fired a single shot to his head.

Silence filled the room as the two hundred and something pound man collapsed to the floor, caving in on himself, much like an accordion. Jerome had never seen such speed in his life, though that really did not matter. Currently, he was wondering whether he should be thankful towards the new man or scared.

Jerome jumped a little when the man moved to retrieve his blades, successfully sheathing one in a pocket. He came toward Jerome with the other. Jerome Moran wiggled in his chair as much as he could trying to keep away. It was only when the man bent down and began cutting the ropes at his ankles did he stop fidgeting. When the first rope was off he realized how occluded his circulation was in his limbs. The man made quick work of the other fibers binding him to his Hell. The man stood and held out an arm for him to hold out to. He simply stared up into the blank goggles of his helper.

"Who are you?"

The man spoke in a British accent, "A friend. I'm here to take you home, Dr. Moran."

Jerome could not stop the tears the welled up in his eyes. After everything he had been through this evening he deserved to cry, dammit. Clear liquid poured down his cheeks in joy and mixed with the blood that stained his skin. Home. _Home._ He was going home.

"Thank you."

Doctor Jerome Moran reached a trembling hand up and out to his savior. Just as his hand touched his –

_BOOM!_

The whole building shook and everyone within the room, alive and dead, was thrown hard against the furthest wall of the room. Dust filled the air as rocks and more debris fell hard from the ceiling around the bodies of Jerome and his rescuer. Jerome, already in a weakened state, immediately passed out when his skull hit the wall. On the other side, the other man, unknown to Jerome as Galahad or Harry Hart, laid almost paralyzed from the sudden blast that blew a hole in the side of the castle.

His goggles began to glitch, filling his vision with nothing but static, so he tore them off. A cough flew from his throat as he rolled over from his stomach to his back. He brought a hand up to his earpiece, aiming to contact Lancelot, but a disconcerting fuzz filled that too. He could barely move.

"Damn, nearly killed everyone in the joint, didn't I?"

He barely heard the voice, as his ears were still ringing. Galahad painfully turned his head to his left to narrow his eyes through the dust and smoke that filled the air. In the debris he could make out a small body making its way into the room, or what was left of it. As the person made their way closer to him and Doctor Moran he began to make out new features. Small, flat body, covered in a cat suit; dark hair, and gray eyes. But that is not what made him gasp, it was the shape of the person's face that hit him. It was formed much like a heart and a pair of thick rimmed glasses perched themselves on their cheeks.

It was the girl from the woods. The "ghost hunter".

Galahad tried to speak out in rage as she approached the limp body of Jerome Moran.

"Thank God, that blast didn't kill you, Dude", he heard her words pass the ringing rolling off her tongue in an American drawl. "I'd have been up the shitter if was to return without you. Well, alive that is."

He watched helpless as the young girl he met from earlier struggled to pick up Doctor Moran. She was weak, he could tell. But from the looks of it she was not as young as he thought before. Now, she looked to be in her mid-twenties just about.

When she finally got the scientist in a half holding half dragging position, Galahad rolled over and launched a hand out to grasp her ankle, causing her to collapse with the already extra weight. He heard a growl leave her throat. She sounded as menacing as a puppy, much to his amusement.

"Get offa me", she kicked his hand away and pulled herself from under Moran.

Galahad was able to get out a raspy, "Who do you work for?"

Just as the young woman had Moran in her possession again, she pulled out a gun and aimed it at Galahad's chest. With a smirk she said,

"Myself."

Then she pulled the trigger.

* * *

"Я русский." – I am Russian

"Пожалуйста , не делайте мне больно, сэр" – Please, do not hurt me, Sir

"Благодарю вас, сэр ! Спасибо!" – Thank you, Sir. Thank you!

Obviously The Russian man was counting down from 1. So, each word stated was one, two, three, four, and five.


	3. The Man

_Area: Classified_

The room was dark. It stood circular and magnificently large, and in the center sat an equally large table. This particular table was also round with its center cut out and just about touched the walls all around. The particular furniture choice is meant to protect the privacy of each man or woman within the room, allowing them ample space between each of their seats. The way the lights were angled obscured the identities just enough but allowed the people to see.

With technology these days though, just the hiding of faces is not enough. Their voices needed to be disguised also. Each seat terminal sat outfitted with a single thin microphone that concealed their voice in a deep, garbled way. In a business like this, one can never be too careful. Everyone always seemed to be out to get each other; it's understandable, the necessities for security precautions.

It remained quiet; no one spoke as they all sat waiting for their host to waltz through the double steal doors to the north of the space. None of the summoned men and women knew what precisely they were here for, but they all knew what each one of them were after – _money_. Money made the world go round.

A soft hiss sounded from the doors as they swung open automatically to reveal a single man. A man of a quite tall stature. Tall but gangly. He wore an all-black, chic suit with a white, silk tie strung about his collar in a most fashionable way. Upon a closer inspection one would see that his shirt is, in fact, black with red pinstripe. Even with his pale skin and shady, ominous eyes he looked to be enticing. Someone who is sure to possess a silver tongue behind his whitish, pink lips.

Behind him the doors closed once more, allowing room to resume to its normal state of hush and stillness. The man advanced with a wide gait through a small walk way cut into the seemingly endless circle of the conference table. He was able to stand, revealed to everyone in sight as a single light above him shone down to grace his form, giving an even more washout appearance. A resounding clap echoed around the room when he brought his hands together in a wide, unsettling smile.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I would firstly like to extend my gratitude to all of you for coming", he spoke, except he actually didn't. . . No, it came from elsewhere. Undoubtedly, the guests were confused but rolled with it anyways as their host never even moved his lips. He still made gestures as if he would be speaking though. Odd.

"You are all probably wondering why you are here", he raised his finger in a pointed way as another smile graced his face, "rest assured, all will be given shortly. First, I would like to explain who exactly I am."

He shoved his hands in his pockets and took a leisurely stance, looking around to each and every one of the shadows before him. "I am Mr. Red. None of you _lovely_ people have ever had the chance to make my acquaintance - such a shame." A pout crossed his lips. He is quite theatrical.

"But! That will change soon enough! I am delighted to say that after many months of planning I have put together a presentation for you." He removed a small remote out of his pocket and aimed it in the direction of the doors he walked through previously. A large screen lowered itself from the ceiling to present itself to the entirety of the room. "Please, sit back and watch this clip."

The low light went out leaving the room in pitch dark as they all waited in silence. Suddenly, a booming voice came from the loud speakers above their heads as a clip of Adolf Hitler blinked into existence upon the screen. He was shown speaking out, loudly and enthusiastically to a crowd of on lookers as they cheered him on, all seemingly baited by every word he spoke. Another voice spoke over the sound of Hitler's now lowered volume, "Adolf Hitler once stated, "All great movements are popular movements. They are the volcanic eruptions of human passions and emotions, stirred into activity by the ruthless Goddess of Distress or by the torch of the spoken word cast into the midst of the people."

"While, unpopular, among many groups around the world for generations it is not disputable that he was an impeccable man of the word and propaganda. Revolutions are what lead to change. Revolutions lead to death, destruction, ruin, anarchy, and disorder. But, revolution also leads to order. Revolution leads to new beginnings.

"The Renaissance Era, the American Revolution, the American Civil War, the French Revolution, all lead to one thing. Change. Change controls us all. We change throughout our lives from the moment we are born our bodies change and adapt to the new world outside the womb. It has been years since our last major change that shook the world and forever transformed our lives as we know them today. So, I saw to you. Is it not time for change?"

The video then clicked through various, unsettling images that shuddered everyone to their core. Each one as graphic as the next, and little was left to the imagination as the video took an audacious stance. Little children being raped, abuse, torture, drugs, sex, scantily clad girls of thirteen, burnings, gang bangs. . . It flicked through so quickly, attacking the senses of everyone around the room, except for Mr. Red.

Then with a sudden stop the images blinked out of existence, shoving the room into darkness again. Leaving everyone stunned in an uncomfortable silence. A few of the men there coughed a bit and adjusted their ties in a way to reorient themselves. A few of the women present just shifted uncomfortably in their seats, fiddling with a necklace or their rings. Such an odd way to begin a presentation. Just what exactly did this man have to offer them? Obviously, he is blunt.

As the lights came upon him he began to "speak" once more.

"Such a cruel and vile world we live in today, don't you think?" Mr. Red left his question hanging for just a moment as he stood casually. He clicked his tongue once before spinning and looking pointedly to the side of the room behind him that he had neglected.

"All you here about on the news today is who is sleeping with whom and how the rape count has sky rocketed in the last twenty years. Such a shame that a world full of brilliant minds and creative thinkers is tossed in the shadow of the human race's lowly, bottom dwellers. We currently live in a society where child molesters and winners of the Nobel Peace Prize live blocks – _doors_ – away from one another."

Another large, quite unsettling, grin graced his sallow features as he heard mumbles of agreement come from his guests. So far so good, they say.

"And now we come to my proposal."

Mr. Red pulled the silver remote from his pocket once more and pointed it at the still lowered screen. A projection of a sketchy blueprint came up. Everyone still sat confused although with what was going on once more. While they are rather persuaded currently none of them still had no clue as to what this man was suggesting.

"This a single mock-up of the Anti-Matter Bomb. American Air Forces have been interested in this little baby since the Cold War. In layman's terms of description, this weapon utilizes the abundant, unseen force of antimatter. It forces matter and antimatter to fight each other for control until the stronger force wins out – normally antimatter – and it causes an intense explosion that is comparable to the force of three atomic bombs."

A woman from his right spoke out in his moment of cessation, her voice a garbled version of his own, "Mr. Red, believe me when I say I do not mean to be rude, but so far what I am gleaning from this is that you would like to cull the population."

"That is an honest statement", he mouth still never moved as he spoke directly to her. "But, believe _me_ when I say that you're assumptions are off base. Please, hear me out.

"There are certain parts of the world that differ, obviously. Where men are allowed to lay hands on their wives and are allowed to take children as young as twelve. In some areas the drinking age is twenty-one, while in others a certain age does not exist. In some places one must go to driving classes for a year before gaining their license, in America you merely have to drive with an adult present for the first 6 months and then read a book in order to take a test.

"What I am trying to get across to you is that our world would be a lot better if there were rules that were identical throughout all the nations. A same language instead of these blasted barriers. A religion that everyone agreed on, because we all know that throughout history religion has been one of the leading causes of war.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I am merely trying to appeal to your since of reasoning. If we had rules, laws, beliefs, and a culture that was equal around the world it would be a better place. There would be no more confusion, no misunderstanding, threats of other countries to bombs the others. If we all had one government to tend to instead of thousands, we could use our combined resources to make leaps and bound into the future of medicine, space travel, anything you can imagine. The most brilliant minds would be able to meet without issue and the lowlifes of the world would be bound to maintain a strict law or else be dealt with accordingly. There would be no more murderers getting off on a simple misplace in evidence that he/she obviously has against him!"

Mr. Red began to get excited and he really felt every single word that spewed forth from somewhere. The funny thing is is that as his body's excitement escalated so did the sound of his voice. So, obviously, he was speaking somehow, just not normally. Not only did he feel every word so did everyone else in the room. They were really following what he was saying.

"My proposal is to create a single government to, not rule the world, but watch over it, monitor it. It would be much like our current U.N., having representatives from each region, much like the American Congress, to decide what would be better for our world. The rules would be congruent and it would solve many issues in society today. All we need is a revolution. A spark of an idea to set a flame. A sudden _incentive_ to want to change."

Someone else spoke up, a man this time, "Mr. Red, how exactly does the antimatter weaponry play into this idea of yours?"

"Good question, Sir", he clicked to another picture of Doctor Jerome Moran. "This gentleman here is currently building the stepping stone to the Antimatter Bomb. His newest project is called the Hydrogen Accelerator. There's really not much of a difference between it and a normal Particle Accelerator other than the fact that it can produce four times as more energy than its predecessor and works with excellent precision. Because of this, the figment of the Antimatter Bomb is to come to fruition. The Antimatter Bomb is theorized to be able to be controlled to such attack such precise area that we could destroy a single large city and not have any consequences for the rest of the world. Essentially, an implosion would occur, sucking in all the matter in the designated area, leaving everything outside the zone safe within an inch of the site all around.

"To cause a change there, of course, has to be some losses. To you all, suggest that we decimate the populations within certain areas that have the highest crime rates. Once we make an example, the others should, in theory fall in line. Like the American Revolution, losses had to occur to obtain the freedom and justice for men at the time. This is no different.

"I would like you all to think long and hard on your opinion of this matter. Think of your children if you have any. Your family. Don't you want your children's children to live in a world where they can walk down a street and not have to worry about getting nabbed? Think. _Think._

"There is a single remote in front of all of you with two buttons. If you agree with my plan and wish to explore the topic more thoroughly, press the green, and, obviously, if you disagree, press red. It is your decision. It is in your hands. I am merely the instigator."

His presentation resonated with the small audience. They all sat enraptured by his words. Some thought of a better world full of peace, while others merely thought of their family. While this so called change would not happen within a single day they could definitely ensure the safety and prosperity of generations to come. They could create a world without fear, where everyone followed the rules or faced the penalties of their actions. They could start over and build a world full of morals and values that all would share. That would be so pleasant.

After moments of deliberation, someone finally voted. A little, green light cut softly though the darkness, allowing everyone to see a single agreement. In the next few seconds few more blinked to life. Each light representing an impending new age in the darkness. Mr. Red smile in a pleasurable way.

Then a single red light popped up. It blinded Mr. Red for a single moment. The single red light grated on his nerves, like a persistent tick that never goes away. His dark eyes swallowed the color and took it in. That single red light. All he could see was red in a sea of green. Red. Red. Red meant no. He hated being told no. No meant he was not accepted. And _that_ is not _acceptable_.

No one heard the growl that erupted from his throat that sounded much like a strangled cat that swallowed a razor blade.

Everyone in the room jumped when a loud bang went off and the sound of something hitting the floor reached their ears. They all turned back to see Mr. Red holding a rather large gun that he had most likely withdrew from an inner pocket. Jaws dropped within the darkness and eyes widened to their fullest potential.

"I apologize", Mr. Red slicked back a lock of dark hair that fell from its place. "Apparently, I neglected to mention that if you chose incorrectly you lose your cranial contents."

Green glowed bright all around.

* * *

**A/N:**** I know I did not have anything Kingsman related in this chapter but I have more coming up. I don't want this to be completely about my OC and Galahad. Also the chapter updates are not on a fixed schedule. I will get to them when I can. School and work come first. Thank you.**


End file.
